Obsidian and Light
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: When Sherlock finds out that Molly is not who she appears to be, he struggles to reconcile this new world with everything he's ever believed, while coming to terms with the feelings she's awakened in him.
1. Dark Discoveries

_This is why you should have texted Mycroft, stupid idiot._

Damn his pride. The last thing he wanted to do was die because he wouldn't call his brother for assistance. God knows, Mycroft would probably have that etched onto his gravestone.

Here lies

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

He was a willful idiot

Died from too much damn pride

Sherlock imagined his brother tsk-ing over his bullet-ridden corpse, muttering about how now he'd have to bring Mummy and Daddy to every play now.

Standing across from him in this forsaken, dirty warehouse, Sebastian Moran, First Lieutenant of the Consulting Criminal, James Moriarty, leveled a gun at him with a smile.

'My boss would be disappointed with how easily you have given up, Mister Holmes,' he taunted.

'Your boss is dead,' Sherlock retorted, clasping his hands behind his back in a stance of casualness.

Moran's grip tightened on the handle of the gun, 'That mouth is going to be your end someday.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, 'Oh? Not today, then?'

Moran's nose twitched in annoyance. He pulled out a cell phone with his free hand. 'Now.' He commanded to the person on the other side, then shoved the phone back into his pocket.

'I have so many plans for killing you, Sherlock. But that seems so final; Not at all like the game Jimmy loved to play. And although I want to see your rotting corpse decorating my front porch, I like the idea of watching you suffer, so…'

Right on cue, the door behind Moran opened. Sherlock flicked his gaze over his enemy's shoulder and felt his heart stop.

A large brute shoved his way in, dragging Molly Hooper in behind him. Her lip was cut and she cradled her free arm against her body. Apparently she put up a fight against whomever kidnapped her.

Sherlock took a step toward her, but Moran waved his gun at him and tutted, 'Now, now, Sherlock. What good are you to her if you die from disobedience?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moran. 'Why bring her here? She's unimportant.' Even as he said it, he prayed that Moran would not hear his pounding heart or see his utter fear that Molly was in mortal danger.

'Unimportant?' Moran scoffed. 'She's 'the woman who counted'.'

Sherlock flinched and Molly squeaked almost imperceptibly.

'I pay attention to the details, Sherly,' Moran smirked. 'And, in fact, we didn't bring her here. She fought her way inside.'

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared past Moran to Molly. She was trembling, but her eyes were zeroed in on the back of Moran's head.

'And now, you're going to watch the 'woman who counts' die.'

'No,' Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a step forward. Behind Moran, he could see Molly trembling, her entire body on edge. He tried to stay calm, to assure her that he had everything in control.

But Moran destroyed that plan.

'Then again, having you die not knowing all that I have planned for your dear Molly,' Moran grinned wickedly, '_that _seems much more appealing.'

Before he could react, Moran whirled about, his armed hand arcing above his head until it targeted Sherlock, lining up the bullet's trajectory directly with Sherlock's heart. In the space of a heartbeat, Sherlock watched as Moran pulled the trigger. A rushing sound filled his ears as time seemed to slow down. He knew that this time, this time he would not survive. The bullet, even if it missed his heart, would drive itself into his chest with enough force to topple him, spreading pain and death in its wake. Molly would be left alone with this monster and would likely be killed before Mycroft found them.

He barely had time to feel that bitter regret before the buzzing was obliterated by the loud gunshot.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.

His heart thudded in grim anticipation.

Suddenly, a gentle warmth embraced him.

He opened his eyes and looked down, expecting to see blood spreading across his shirt, the pain following soon after; once the shock had worn off.

Instead, his vision was obscured by a crown of brown hair, familiar hands gripping his arms. It took exactly four heartbeats for him to realize what had happened.

Molly tilted her head up and smiled at him, despite the agonizing pain radiating from her eyes. Sherlock grabbed her arms as her legs collapsed from under her.

'No, Molly, no,' he gasped, lowering her gently to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he could see Moran watching them, shocked at the turn of events, but an evil grin invading his face.

She grimaced, 'Sherlock, get out of here. Go!' Her voice was laced in agony. He ignored her feeble attempts to push him away and instead cradled her close. The bullet had hit her in the back, upper right. The shock and blood loss would be enough to kill her in a matter of minutes.

If she had not stepped in front of him, it would have hit his own heart.

The one that was now breaking.

A tear escaped his eye and Molly reached up to brush it away.

She arched as a wave of pain coursed through her body. She gritted her teeth and groaned. 'Go,' she spat out with great effort. 'You need to go now!'

Sherlock felt his heart shatter as she closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. With a last pitiful whisper for him to run, she stilled. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling the rush of heartbreak pull his world out from under his feet.

'Pity,' Moran sauntered over and nudged Molly with his foot, 'That bullet was meant for you. Shame to waste it on this human drivel.'

Fury and sorrow burned white hot as Sherlock placed a reverent kiss to her forehead. As he shifted her body to the floor, he felt a cold metal caress his arm. A dagger, slipped up the arm of her cherry-laden cardigan was peeking out the edge of her sleeve.

He grew cold with realization. She'd never intended to make it out. She'd sacrificed herself to get him an advantage, a fighting chance. And if she hadn't shown up, he would assuredly be dead in her place. He stood up slowly and lifted his head to stare into the laughing face of Moran.

'Have I struck a nerve, Mister Holmes?' He taunted. 'Or perhaps it's not a nerve I've hit, but your heart.'

With a roar, Sherlock lunged.

'You bastard!' Sherlock bellowed as he grappled with Moran, the dagger slicing through the air. Though equally matched in technique, Moran had the upper hand in weaponry, pulling his own blade from the heel of his boot and attempting to stab Sherlock at every turn. The gun, having fallen from Moran's grip when Sherlock tackled him, was kicked aside.

A thrumming filled the room, unheard at first by the fighting men, but growing in intensity. The floor began to vibrate as the thrumming grew louder, the walls joining and the window glass shaking.

With Moran holding the blade to his neck, Sherlock's hands trying to pull it away, the two men became aware of the noise and change in atmosphere.

A bright light illuminated the dank room. Moran turned his face away, but did not loosen his grip or pull the blade away. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the light.

Suddenly, in a rush of wind, Moran's weight was gone from his chest, the sharp blade absent from his throat.

The light faded and Sherlock opened his eyes, sitting up as he did so. He looked around for Moran, ready for another attack. To his shock, his enemy lay several meters to his right, smoke rising from his well-burnt corpse.

'Leave.'

He whipped his head around at the familiar voice.

There, alive and well, stood Molly Hooper. Gaping, he stood up, never taking his eyes from her face.

'You're alive,' he gasped breathlessly.

'I told you to leave,' she reiterated, cold wrath threading through her tone. Sherlock blinked in surprise.

Suddenly, the entire situation came back to him. He glanced back at the smoldering corpse and then back to Molly. His gaze dropped and he froze. Dangling from her hand was a heavy blade of white metal.

'Molly?' A confused frown marred his features.

She ignored him and marched over to the body of Moran, kneeling down beside it, leaning on the upright sword.

'I don't understand.' He hated himself for saying something so ordinary, but he could not deduce how the woman before him, whom he had seen take a bullet and collapse, was now walking about, with a _sword._

'There's a lot you don't understand, Sherlock,' Molly quipped as she straightened up. Sherlock watched as she lifted her sword with both hands. She suddenly stilled and glanced behind her at the door.

'You need to leave,' she demanded coldly.

Sherlock scoffed, 'I most certainly will not. You were killed, you _died_. Now I want some answers.'

Her jaw clenched in anger as she stared him down. No longer the shy pathologist who risked her job to help him, who _sacrificed _herself to save him, Molly stood with the bearing of a warrior. But Sherlock was not one to admit defeat and turn tail. He stared right back, determined to get his answers.

Finally, Molly spat, 'As you wish, Mister Holmes. But remember, _I told you to leave._'

She whirled back to the corpse and took a steadying breath.

As she raised the white blade above her, tip pointing to the ground, a white light began to encircle her. Sherlock took an involuntary step back as more lights appeared. Afraid to look away and miss something, he watched wide-eyed as the lights encompassed her entire body then vanished.

He gaped in shock.

Instead of her familiar, yet bloody clothes, Molly was now garbed in a tunic of pure white, silver armor laced around her vulnerable areas. A breastplate hugged her torso and wrapped over her shoulders, silver bands protected her arms. She wore a pair of white pants that were tucked neatly into knee-high white boots, silver calf guards protected her legs, laced up the sides. A belt cinched her waist, an empty scabbard for her sword on one side, and a dagger and a number of pouches on the other. Her hair remained in a braided plait, but silver strands shone through the weaving.

But of all that shocked him about her metamorphosis, the pair of armored wings extending from her mid-back were the most astounding. They were not the vision of romantic feathered, angel-like wings from fairytales. Rather, they were sharp and intimidating, the silver chain armor gleamed in the minimal light from the dirty windows. With a breadth of nearly five feet, the armor chinked as the wings unfurled.

He observed all this within the space of a breath, which was enough time for Molly to raise her sword a bit higher and then plunge it ruthlessly into the heart of the corpse at her feet.

A flash of blinding light, then the body dissipated into a black mist, a distant scream breaking the silence.

A slow clapping turned their attention to the door. The shadows obscured the man's face, but his voice was all too familiar.

'Well done, Miss Hooper. You surprised me, recognizing a demi-mortal soul.'

'James,' Molly narrowed her eyes.

Jim Moriarty grinned and sauntered into the room, his hands in his pockets. He completely ignored Sherlock, who maintained a cool exterior despite the shock he was feeling, and sidled up to Molly.

He smiled wickedly at her and dragged a finger seductively down her neck to the top of her breastplate. 'Mm, darling, if you had shown me this side of you, we might never have broken up.'

Molly hadn't even flinched at his touch, but disgust was written all over her face.

'Oh, don't tell me you haven't missed me,' Jim pouted.

'Will those be your final words, James?' Molly asked, her eyebrows raised, her grip tightening around her sword's handle.

Jim chortled madly, 'Good golly, Miss Molly, how you've changed!' He sauntered over to Sherlock, 'Isn't she scrumptious, Mister Holmes?'

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow, still trying to understand this new reality.

His eyes still on Sherlock, Jim called out, 'So, tell me, Molly Hooper,' he turned his black eyes back to her, 'what are you?'

When Molly didn't answer, he glanced between the two of them.

Realization dawned and he clapped his hands gleefully, 'Oh, ho, ho! You haven't even told _him. _Does the great Sherlock Holmes not know something? Something about his precious pathologist? Tell me, Mister Holmes,' his Irish lilt taunting the other man, 'how does it feel to know that the person you care for most in the world, the one woman you have always _counted on_ has hidden a _major _part of her life from you?'

'Enough, James.'

Molly's command merely elicited another smirk from the Consulting Criminal.

'Oh, Miss Hooper,' he sing-songed. 'I find myself… _quite intrigued _by the goddess warrior before me.'

'A warrior, yes,' Molly stepped closer, 'but I am far from a goddess.'

'Perhaps an angel, then,' he raked a lewd gaze over her wings, 'I've always had a sort of _kink_ for defiling the holy.'

Moving too fast to see, Molly suddenly had Moriarty pinned against the wall, her white blade against his throat. 'I assure you, my holiness is no longer attainable. And I will not be threatened.'

A flash of surprise crossed the Irishman's face. He quickly schooled his features into a terrifying smile. 'Then, dear Molly, why not join me? I seem to be in need of a lieutenant.' His gaze flicked to the burnt body of Sebastian Moran.

He choked a bit as Molly pressed the blade into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

'I've died a thousand deaths, James,' she spat, 'I'll die a thousand more before I join you.' His smile fell and his eyes darkened to almost obsidian. A flash of something powerful swept through the room and she released him quickly and roughly, keeping her blade at the ready. He straightened up and brushed his suit off in disgust at having it soiled.

'Very well, then. I look forward to our battle, my dear,' he bowed mockingly before smirking at the dumbfounded Sherlock, 'When Sleeping Beauty here wakes up, be sure to remind him that I still owe him. And it seems I've found a _delightful _way for him to collect.'

With a final wave, he turned and left the room, shouting a mocking 'buh-bye' over his shoulder.

The door clanged shut behind Moriarty, leaving Molly and Sherlock standing in the darkening room. Sherlock continued to stare at Molly's back, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. For her part, Molly was trying to come up with an explanation. She sheathed her sword in its scabbard and adjusted her breastplate.

Finally, she turned back around and faced Sherlock.

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her, absorbing a multitude of confounding data, none of which he could decipher. Several minutes passed and Molly began to fidget under his scrutiny. With a heavy sigh, she walked over to him.

'Sherlock,' she stopped several feet from him and tried to catch his eye. 'Look at me.'

He hesitantly raised his eyes to hers. She could see the distrust, the fear, the awe in his gaze. Slowly, she reached her hand up and gently touched his cheek.

'I'm still me,' she whispered. 'I'm still your Molly.'

He swallowed thickly. The very foundations of his Mind Palace were quaking as the evidence of what he had seen was contradicting all his previous certainties and beliefs. He stepped away, her hand falling empty to her side.

'No, you're not.'


	2. Calm my dark thoughts

The storm-tossed waves crashed against the face of the cliff. Lightning flashed in the distance, over the ocean, the quiet, yet deep rumble of thunder following. The whipping wind promised the arrival of the storm upon the shore.

Her hands slack at her side, Molly stared out at the encroaching darkness, her toes curled over the edge of the cliff, her armored wings tightly bound to her back.

It would be easy to end it. Simple as leaning forward.

But it really wouldn't end.

Instead of the silence of death she craved, she would suffer the agony of drowning, of being tossed against the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff. Then, as the last breath of life was torn from her body, the renewal would begin. Her body would heal. Her wounds disappear, her lungs emptied of the toxic water, her heart beating steadily once more.

Her flawless skin would bear no mark of her injuries.

But the memories would remain.

She closed her eyes and stepped back, breathing deeply of the damp wind. It was always after a death experience that the memories were closest to the surface. With each flash of lightning, each rumble of thunder, she fought the urge to dwell, to remember the pain and torture inflicted time and time again.

But of all the deaths she'd died, this last one was the most devastating. Watching Sherlock turn his back on her killed the little bit of humanity she had managed to hold on to, the hope that she could be happy, that she could be like them, that she could be normal for one life.

But Molly Hooper was a lie. And the lie had been discovered.

She had fought so hard to keep her secret hidden, to prevent the great detective from deducing her true nature. She had fallen into the character she had created and became Molly Hooper, pathologist, cat-lover, average, human, normal, and utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Not all of Molly Hooper was a lie.

Her name, for instance, was actually Molly. But she abandoned her true surname over the years. It was easier, for her, to adopt a new last name every couple decades. Hopping from continent to continent, trying to make a life for a time then leaving before questions were raised about her un-aging appearance.

And the true Molly loved Sherlock Holmes like she'd never loved before. She had never met anyone like him, so brilliant, so emotionally-clueless, but with a heart that binds itself tightly to a close few and willing to sacrifice anything for them.

The hope she had carried, futile and idealistic, was obliterated by three words.

_'No, you're not.'_

Her heart clenched in the familiar pain of heartbreak. His words echoed in her mind, taunting her, reminding her that she would never be free from the chains of immortality that bound her to this life of solitude and exile, living amongst the humans but to never be one of them.

With a cry of despair, she collapsed to her knees, her armor clanking against the slate. Great sobs wracked her small frame, tears long withheld poured down her face. Her anguished cries were lost amid the oncoming thunder.

The storm drew overhead and as the first drop of rain touched her skin, she opened her eyes and raised her head to the heavens.

'Why?' she whispered brokenly.

The answering thunder crashed around her as the sky let loose sheets of rain, soaking her immediately.

'Why am I alone?' she shouted in anguish, pleading with whatever being had cursed her existence to answer her, to tell her that her suffering was not in vain. That there was an end in sight.

But there was no response.

Her wings unfurled, their silver armor disappearing into the air, unveiling silver and white feathers, darkened by the rain. Curling them around herself, Molly cried.

She was alone. Again.

She always would be.

* * *

><p>When the storm passed and her tears had dried, she raised her red-rimmed eyes to the horizon. Her tangled hair lay in damp tendrils around her face, the silver strands glistening in the rising Sun.<p>

With slow movements, Molly stood to her feet and opened her wings to dry in the warm light.

_Enough. _She lifted her chin and straightened her back. The tender, broken heart in her chest continued to throb and ache. But with determined focus, she set about barricading the shards of hope behind a wall of indifference.

Too many times had she been hurt, been heartbroken.

Now, her only purpose was to find Moriarty.

Destroy him.

Then disappear once more.

London would be a distant memory.

And Sherlock along with it.


	3. A Dark History

'No, you're not.'

In an instant, Sherlock saw utter despair cross Molly's fair, flawless features. The silver ring around her chocolate eyes dimmed and she turned her head.

'Perhaps you're right.'

She vanished in a whisper of the wind, no evidence of her presence left behind.

He stared at the spot she had occupied, trying to prevent his Mind Palace from collapsing entirely while fighting the unknown feelings roaring in his chest; betrayal, anguish, sorrow.

His mind fogged, the very foundations of his Mind Palace shattering under the two impossibilities he'd just faced:

1. The laws of everything he'd ever believed as a man of logic and science had been bent to the point of breaking in front of his very eyes

2. Molly Hooper was a liar

In a daze, he slowly turned and walked to the door, Mycroft's men bursting into the room from all sides, running past him and clearing the room. He didn't hear their calls, the radio static as they relayed the scene to his brother. His feet led him to the street and he slid into the unmarked car idling at the curb, his eyes still glazed over as he desperately tried to keep his Mind Palace from collapsing around him.

The car pulled away.

Across from him, Mycroft sat primly, one leg crossed over the other, the ever-present brolly at his side. Wordlessly, he handed a thick, tan folder to the Consulting Detective.

Written in thick, black letters across the front was the title 'Zephyr'.

Sherlock stared at it, knowing exactly what was inside. A flash of anger briefly overwhelmed his shock.

Mycroft had had it ready. He had known about Molly and had known Sherlock would eventually find out about her. He'd known for some time, it seemed, due to the sheer amount of information in the file.

Sherlock flipped open the file. Clipped to the top of the dossier was an aged picture, several decades old based on the deterioration of the ink. A familiar face stared back at him.

Molly.

'What is she?' Sherlock asked, not looking away from the picture of the sweet, blushing pathologist he'd known.

Mycroft sighed. 'I do not know.' He fiddled with the handle of his brolly, 'She would have remained an unknown enigma had she not crossed paths with you, brother mine. When it became apparent she would be an asset, I had her background thoroughly dissected. Her history is… intriguing.'

'Yet you did not think to tell me about this before today?' Sherlock spat as he stared down at the file.

'Would you have believed me, Sherlock?' Mycroft quirked an eyebrow tellingly. 'As it is, I, myself, took significant pains to procure evidence of her true nature.'

Sherlock's head whipped up and he narrowed his eyes, 'What did you do to her?'

Mycroft sighed heavily, 'Nothing so… horrible as to be determined inhumane, I assure you. She has proven herself to be most resilient.'

'She works for you, doesn't she?'

'In a manner of speaking.' Mycroft smirked. 'Enough about the pathologist. Why was there no trace of Moriarty's body in the warehouse?'

Silence fell between them.

'She let him go.'

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightened. 'I see.'

Those two words immediately caught Sherlock's entire attention. Mycroft was able to easily conceal any emotion. Except anger. It released itself in a dangerous calm, like the breath before the oncoming storm. Sherlock saw his brother's fury, in the tightening of his hand on his brolly and the near frigid, even tone.

They rode the rest of the way to Baker Street in silence.

As the car pulled up to the curb, Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Tread carefully, Sherlock. A new, evermore dangerous game is, as you say, afoot.'

With a scowl, Sherlock ducked out of the car, the file clasped tightly in his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>Two days later<strong>

With a timeline crossing the wall behind the sofa, Sherlock had mapped out the dual-identity of Molly Hooper. There were generous gaps in the information file, decades without any trace of her. The earliest notice of her was in 1845, under the name Margaret 'Molly' Collins. Since then, every so often, her surname was altered, her occupation changed, but her style and appearance remained the same.

Sherlock stared at the distorted lines.

It felt surreal, something he loathed. He was a scientist, a logician. Everything he knew was based in solid fact and reality. This… this was beyond anything he'd ever comprehended. He had no knowledge or experience in anything otherworldly.

And he didn't like not knowing.

He resented that Molly had kept a secret from him. Molly Hooper had hidden something monumental from him and he wasn't sure if he was more upset about his entire reality being challenged or… that Molly had not trusted him with her secret.

'It wasn't about trust.'

Sherlock whirled around in surprise. Molly stood by the door, dressed in her usual baggy trousers and cherry covered cardigan. Everything about her screamed 'ordinary'.

'I didn't say-'

Molly smiled sadly, 'I've learned how to read people just as well as you, over the years, Sherlock. It just took me longer than you to hone my skills. Much longer.'

Sherlock turned back to the wall.

He heard her sigh and make her way across the room to stand at his side. They stared at the haphazard collage for some time in silence.

'It was for your protection,' Molly finally broke the silence. Her soft voice was laced with sadness, but remained resolute.

'From whom?'

From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly breathe deeply. 'From everything.'

He huffed and spat, 'Vague, mysterious, self-important. I can see why Mycroft is fond of you as an asset. You've all the makings of his ideal protégé.'

Her hand twitched at her side, but she remained silent.

'Ah, you even have the 'silence is the upper-hand' attitude down to a science!'

'Shut up,' she hissed. 'You have _no _idea what is out there. My silence is a shield between you and a thousand things that would seek to destroy you. Your little dabbles with Moriarty are part of a bigger game.'

'Yes, and if I am to believe that you, it's apparently a game you have been playing all along.' Sherlock turned, towering over her, his eyes flashing in angry realization.

Molly whispered, 'You weren't even supposed to be there.' She closed her eyes and sighed, 'I knew Moriarty would show. Your presence forced me to change my tactics. And then you wouldn't leave.'

Molly turned away from him, a tear making its way down her cheek. She whispered bitterly, 'You weren't supposed to find out.'

They stood in silence. Questions burned his tongue, but refused to be spoken, his heart thundered with heartbreak, disappointment and aggravation.

'Whatever you think of me, I'm on your side' she spoke softly.

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow and snapped bitterly, 'But there's always something I miss. You expect me to believe you're some form of _otherworldly _warrior, powerful and immortal. I have serious doubts about what I've seen, it's a road I've traveled before.' The Baskerville case taught him to be even more discerning about putting too much trust in what his human eyes have seen. 'Forgive me for struggling to understand this possible shift in my reality.'

Molly winced at his tone.

His Mind Palace was crumbling, things he had once never doubted, like the bloody laws of physics, were suddenly cast out into a pit of uncertainty. He raked a hand through his hair, unaware of its violent tremor, as he turned his scowl upon her once more.

'Yet even with all your so-called _power_,' he spat, 'you let Moriarty waltz out of that room with nary a scratch.'

Her head snapped up in shock and anger. 'I did not _let _him waltz out the room, Sherlock Holmes. There is more at play here than a simple criminal network. I made the right choice, the _only _choice to get you out alive.'

He cocked his head back as he laughed mockingly, 'You killed Moran while he was on top of me, without so much as singeing me. You easily could have stopped Moriarty.'

Molly shook her head and turned her face away in contemplation, 'Something else is controlling him. Something… dark.'

'Oh, that's very informative,' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Damn it, Sherlock, just trust me, killing him would probably bring about something even worse,' she pleaded, the Molly he knew coming through.

'Trust you? After everything you've thrown at me?' He bellowed, causing her to rear back in surprise.

Her eyes softened, 'I know this is a lot to try to comprehend. Especially for someone like you, whose mind is based in science and logic. But I'm still Molly. I've never lied to you about who I am. I simple omitted _what _I am.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her rationale.

She reached out and brought his gaze back to her solemn eyes. 'I've never felt darkness that powerful, Sherlock. Moriarty was never that powerful. Whatever this is… whoever this is… they're powerful and Moriarty may just be a pawn.'

'Wonderful,' Sherlock deadpanned.

Before he could say more, the door below opened and a familiar voice shouted up the stairs.

John.

Molly's eyes widened as she flicked her gaze to the wall. 'Sherlock, please,' she whispered. 'Don't tell him what I am. Don't let him see that.'

The footsteps on the stairs grew closer. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. His oft-silenced heart urged him to protect her, to keep her secrets safe. But the ego he'd fed for decades had been broken, his deductive reasoning had been accused of failing him, and both were demanding indisputable proof. And a tad bit of revenge against the woman who threatened their infallibility.

'No.'

Her eyes widened in shock.

Time slowed to a crawl as Sherlock made his move. He knew what he was about to do could end very badly. But he needed further proof. He needed to see it with his own eyes. And there was no time to lose, if he had indeed fallen into a more dangerous game.

There was a eight-second time frame before John had an eye-line into the flat. Each second passed slowly as Sherlock spun around and lunged for the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly begin to recover from her brief shock. He estimated she was able to vanish, and would if he didn't hurry, within six seconds.

His hand grasped the familiar, cool metal and he swung around quickly, his arm outstretched.

With an unerring eye, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet piercing the air coincided with John's final step on the staircase.

Screaming in pain, Molly collapsed to her side, her hand immediately covering her wounded thigh. Blood seeped through her fingers, coating the wood floor in a dark puddle.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock!' John shouted as he raced into the room, immediately rushing to Molly's aid. He shrugged his coat off and was about to press it to her leg when Sherlock pulled him back.

'Don't soil your jacket,' he said nonchalantly.

'What the _bloody Hell _have you done?' John wrenched himself from Sherlock's grasp and knelt beside Molly, who was shaking violently, tears of pain flooding down her cheek. He tore the tattered pant leg away, exposing her thigh. 'You shattered her femur, Sherlock! Call the paramedics!'

'No,' Sherlock stood over them, his narrowed eyes fixed on Molly, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Still in doctor mode, John improvised a tourniquet with Sherlock's nearby scarf, tying it above the wound. He then made to lift Molly up and get her to the A&E.

'Then I'll drive her,' he grunted, hoisting up the petite pathologist.

'Put me down,' Molly's grunted command laced with pain halted John's movements. He stared at her incredulously, about to protest. But her focus was still stubbornly on Sherlock. John hesitantly obeyed, lowering her to the floor and grimacing in sympathy as she cried out.

Her face was pale and sweaty as she tried to breathe through the pain. Sherlock could see that she was about to pass out from the agony.

John pulled out his mobile, dialing for the paramedics, when a gentle vibrating hum filled the room, barely audible above Molly's ragged breaths. He raised his head in question. Molly had not taken her gaze from Sherlock, knowing, despite her agony, exactly what he was trying to prove. He steadfastly refused to offer assistance or comfort. The humming persisted and to John's complete shock, it appeared to emanate from Molly. She suddenly closed her eyes in a wave of agony, clenching her teeth and groaning loudly. John gaped as silver threads of light, barely visible to his eye, began to weave across the bullet hole in her thigh, like haphazard stitches binding the flesh together.

The threads disappeared, leaving her thigh unmarked and, apparently, fully healed.

Silence descended between the three of them. His mouth hanging open, all words seemed to fail the medical doctor. Briefly, he considered another 'tea' incident, with Sherlock experimenting on John's mental capacities without his knowledge.

But Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state of awe, though the clenching of his fists at his side indicated a growing anger.

Molly stood, disregarding her torn and bloody clothes. Tear tracks marred her face, her cheeks still pale and glistening with sweat. The usually timid pathologist walked purposefully to the seething Sherlock and, despite her diminutive size, seemed to tower over him in her wrath.

Her eyes flashed silver and her voice was laced with underlying steel as she hissed, 'I may heal, Sherlock Holmes, but that does not mean I do not feel the fire of a bullet or the terror of agonizing pain and death. Remember that the next time you point a gun at me.'

'If you had been honest with me, I would not have had to resort to such measures to satisfy my disbelief,' Sherlock retorted.

'That was not a choice for you to make,' she hissed. 'My secrets were kept hidden for your protection, damn it.'

She turned to the gobsmacked doctor and smiled gently, 'John, do sit down before you faint.'


End file.
